The Curse Land

 

The Cure Tree

In the isolated town of New England, nestled deep within the Blood Forest, fear gripped the hearts of its five hundred inhabitants. Death was a constant shadow, claiming three lives every week without fail. No one knew why, and no one was safe. The townsfolk lived in simple wooden huts along a single street that led to the market square, which doubled as a playground and a venue for important events. The forest provided all their resources—food, wood, and water—but it also confined them. For a hundred years, no one had seen an outsider, and those who dared to cross the town’s boundary perished instantly.

One quiet morning, when the market square lay deserted, two friends, Charles and Yamal, played at its center. At the heart of the square stood a massive, ancient tree, its leaves as wide as a man’s body. Strangely, no one could recall it ever shedding a single leaf—not even Old Man Ezra, the town’s eldest resident at one hundred thirty years, who had lived in New England his entire life. The tree was a mystery, its unchanging presence both a comfort and a source of unease.

“I challenge you to a game of darts,” Charles said to Yamal, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“What’s the stake?” Yamal asked, leaning against a wooden post.

“You drop your interest in Rihanna,” Charles replied.

“No way!” Yamal laughed, shaking his head. “You know how beautiful Rihanna is. Now that we’re of marriageable age, I’m not giving up my chance to marry her.”

“That’s why it’s a challenge,” Charles said, grinning. “Winner takes all.”

Yamal smirked, undeterred. “I’m in. Where’s the target?”

Charles pointed to the ancient tree. “What’s stopping us from using that?”

Yamal shivered, eyeing the tree warily. “That thing gives me the creeps.”

“I’ll go first,” Charles said, brushing off his friend’s hesitation. He positioned himself, steadied his dart, and took aim. With a flick of his wrist, the dart soared through the air at incredible speed, piercing the tree’s trunk dead center in the bullseye.

Yamal wasn’t looking at Charles; his face was frozen in horror. “What’s wrong with you?” Charles asked, his voice sharp with concern.

Yamal could only point, trembling, toward the tree behind Charles. Turning slowly, Charles froze, his eyes locked on the impossible sight before him. He rubbed his eyes and looked again, but the vision remained unchanged. “Is that… blood dripping from the tree?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Yamal nodded, too terrified to speak.

“Come on, we need to tell the elders!” Charles said, grabbing Lamal’s arm. They sprinted toward the chief’s hut, shouting at the top of their lungs.

Chief Donald had been resting after a grueling night hunting a wild boar nearly as large as a horse. A nasty gash on his chest, inflicted by the boar’s tusk, throbbed painfully—a wound everyone called a miracle he’d survived. He was lost in a dreamless sleep, pain gnawing at him, when the commotion outside his hut jolted his eyes open.

“Who’s making all that racket?” he grumbled, wincing as he sat up. “Can’t an injured man get some rest?”

He shuffled to the door and peered outside. Nearly the entire village stood gathered, clamoring to enter, held back only by his son’s firm stance at the threshold.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Donald roared, his deep voice cutting through the chaos before dissolving into a ragged cough. A towering man, packed with muscle, he commanded attention whenever he spoke.

"The tree is bleeding!" Dembele, the village tanner, shouted as Chief Donald poked his head out of his hut.

"The land is cursed," Ballon, the village carpenter, added grimly.

"What are you lot yapping about now?" Chief Donald snapped, his voice sharp despite the pain gripping his chest.

"There’s a mystery to be solved," the village wizard, Gyokere, declared, his eyes glinting with knowing.

Dembele rolled his eyes, not even glancing at Gyokere. "Don’t start with your mystery talk again, old man. You’ve been at it for years."

"Aren’t you troubled by the deaths?" Gyokere pressed, undeterred. "Every time a new baby is born, someone in the village dies. Haven’t you noticed?"

"This isn’t about your riddles," Ballon said, shaking his head. "This is about a tree bleeding."

"What tree?" Chief Donald asked, wincing as another wave of pain hit him.

"The one in the town square," Gyokere replied, his voice low and ominous.

"How did this happen?" the chief demanded.

The villagers pushed forward two boys, Charles and Yamal, their faces pale with fear. "Ask them," Dembele said, pointing.

Chief Donald turned to the boys. "Speak. What happened?"

Charles swallowed hard. "We were playing darts, using the tree as a target. When the dart hit it, blood started oozing out. We ran to tell everyone."

"This is strange," Chief Donald muttered, his brow furrowing. "Lead the way. I need to see this with my own eyes."

Supported by his son, Salah, the chief stumbled toward the town square, the villagers trailing behind in a somber procession. Uncertainty hung heavy in the air, each step filled with dread about what the bleeding tree might mean for their village. As they reached the square, the sight stopped them cold: the ancient tree stood drenched in dark, glistening blood, the ground beneath it sticky with a thick, crimson pool.

Chief Donald’s voice cracked as he rasped, "What is happening?"

"This is a mystery we must solve," Gyokere said, stepping forward. "The bleeding tree is a sign. We’ve never had visitors in this village, and yet, as I’ve said, every new birth brings a death. Something is at work here—something we don’t understand."

The villagers fell silent, Gyokere’s words sinking in. Some nodded slowly, their faces etched with unease, as the weight of his observation settled over them.

Chief Donald turned to the wizard, his eyes narrowing. "What do you propose we do?"

"Let us consult the gods of the land," Wizard Gyokere declared, his voice steady with resolve.

Chief Donald glanced at the gathered villagers, their faces a mix of curiosity and apprehension. "How do we do that?" he asked.

"In my hut," Gyokere replied. "Come, this mystery must be solved."

Chief Donald nodded, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. "I’ve never even thought of leaving this village in all my years. I didn’t know other places existed."

"Why would we leave?" a villager named Trump interjected, his tone defiant. "This is our ancestral home."

"No one denies that, Trump," Chief Donald said calmly, addressing the murmuring crowd. "But we must act."

"There’s no time to waste," Gyokere urged. "Follow me." He led the villagers to his hut, but upon arrival, he realized it was too small to accommodate them all. "My hut can’t hold everyone," he said. "I’ll bring my tools, and we’ll perform the consultation outside." Turning to a young man, he added, "Charles, fetch a stool for the Chief from behind my hut. He’s exerted himself enough today."

Once everyone was settled, Wizard Gyokere opened his divination bag. He drew out a rat’s skull, holding it aloft. "The rat knows every nook and cranny of our village. It has seen the evil committed and will guide us."

Next, he revealed an eagle’s eye. "The eagle sees all from above. No evil escapes its gaze."

Finally, he produced a bone, weathered and ancient. "This is the bone of our ancestor. Let their spirit whisper the truth to us."

Gyokere gathered the items in his hands, raised them to the sky, and intoned, "Gods of our land, witness this! Gods of our ancestors, accept this! Gods of the harvest, hear us!" He cast the items onto the ground and waited. The villagers held their breath, some glancing nervously around, half-expecting the gods to appear.

Gyokere studied the scattered bones, his eyes narrowing. Suddenly, he shouted, "We obey, Ancient One!"

He turned to Chief Donald, his expression grave. "The gods demand our blood."

Chief Donald shifted uneasily. "What do you mean?"

"Each of us must offer a drop of blood to the ancestors to answer our plea," Gyokere explained.

"So be it," Chief Donald said, extending his hand. One by one, the villagers squeezed a drop of blood into a calabash. When all had contributed, Gyokere chanted incantations and poured the blood onto the ground. A shimmering apparition rose before them, visible and audible to all.

"My children," the apparition began, its voice heavy with sorrow, "long ago, a crime cursed this land. The gods demanded each villager sacrifice their right eye, hand, and leg to lift the curse. We, your ancestors, could not comply, and so the curse took hold. It sealed our village, preventing visitors from entering and taking a life whenever a new child was born."

"What was the crime?" Gyokere asked, his voice trembling.

The apparition shuddered, closing its eyes. "We killed the children of the gods." With that, it vanished.

Silence fell over the villagers. Some wept, others stood in stunned disbelief. Chief Donald turned to Gyokere. "What do we do now?"

"I don’t know," Gyokere admitted, his voice low. "I don’t relish losing half my body."

Chief Donald rose from his stool, his face resolute. "We must return to our homes and consider this. The gods have spoken, but the choice is ours." With his son Salah at his side, he walked toward home, the weight of the decision heavy on his shoulders.